


between us

by xuyue



Series: edo period verse [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Edo Period, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24796267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xuyue/pseuds/xuyue
Summary: you are promised to another.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader
Series: edo period verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191095
Comments: 4
Kudos: 69





	between us

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from my [tumblr](http://stelleum.tumblr.com)

“Lady!” Iwaizumi calls out as he strides up the knoll, weeds whipping at his grieves.

You are only a few paces away, knelt in a blanket of grass so tall it obscures you from the waist down.

“Lady,” he calls again, but again you do not move.

He regards you, stopping to stand a modest distance away; in the mess of wild greenery, you appear as a flower, your face turned to the sun.

Your hair is loose around your shoulders, a tumbling mess of dark silk that brushes the grass below. He can almost see your face in his mind’s eye; sweet and soft with a dusting of rosy colour.

But when you turn around, your cheeks are blotchy and red, tracked with tears not yet dried. You do not crumble in front of him; you do not break. You sit there, hands folded on the woven osmanthus flowers in your lap and allow drop after drop to gather at your chin.

“Lady, we must return to the palace. It is not safe to wander so far alone.”

“Why do you not call me by my name?” your voice trembles, your resolve pulled so taut that it threatens to snap.

He watches as a tear drops, landing soundlessly on the soft curve of your hand.

“It would not be proper,” he musters, as delicately as he can manage. “It is not my place to address the Lady so informally.”

“But have we not lived our childhood together?” you press, voice teetering on desperation. “Have I— Have I not made you my most trusted vassal?”

“You have, Lady,” he says, gently.

“Then are we not friends?” Your smile is sad, disarming.

“I…” He falters, unsure. Your eyes glimmer with the promise of spilling over again. It is more than he can bear.

“If that is what you wish, my Lady.”

Your hand raises to dab at your cheeks. Even in despair, you are the picture of grace. Somehow, it only deepens his pity for you.

“Then please,” you gesture beside you, “sit with me.”

He sits.

There is silence then, punctuated only by soft hiccups and the distant cries of wild birds. It is an expectant kind of quiet; one that threatens to burst with words unsaid.

From the corner of his eye, he watches with uncertainty. He realizes then that he should have brought one of your maidservants with him, someone who could comfort you as you needed.

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“I have been informed,” you start, your voice flat, “that I am to be wed three summers from now. To the eldest son of a clan head in a neighbouring province to the west.”

He glances at your face, still round with the softness of adolescence. He cannot imagine it. Although he knows it is customary of women your age, he cannot picture you in the white bridal _uchikake_. Cannot see your hands interlaced with those of a faceless noble, undoubtedly much older than you. It is almost unsettling.

“You are much too young,” he blurts out, more indignant than he can afford. “They cannot possibly think—” He stops short, biting his tongue.

It is not his place, he knows this.

It is not his place, yet he has spoken.

“They cannot possibly think what?” You ask, but your tone is not one of warning.

“They cannot possibly think that— you would be happy.” His words sound naïve as he speaks them; even a dullard knows a woman’s happiness has no bearing in the matter of noble marriage. But he has seen the love of your parents, seen how they have so tenderly nurtured you into bloom. He did not think they would plan for _this_.

You swallow thickly but the tears have stopped now.

“It is what is best for the clan,” you say dully. The words are not your own.

“I am sorry,” he says.

A soft wind blows from the east, carrying the familiar fragrance of plum blossoms from within the castle grounds.

Even here, its heavy scent lingers, claiming you with its presence unseen.

-

The nightmares fall upon you shortly after.

The first night is the most alarming; your scream breaks through the soft din of the summer night, startling him into action.

He shouts for you, his heart in his throat as he throws open the door to your sleeping chambers. A hand rests on the scabbard at his hip, but instead of finding your quarters in disarray or the presence of an intruder, you sit alone in a crumpled mess of bedding, quiet sobs wracking your small frame.

Upon noticing him, you immediately turn away, but he has seen it already; the soft glistening of tears like drops of moonlight upon the soft curve of your cheek.

He does not know whether or not to comfort you. Your attendants are no doubt asleep in their own quarters and he is the only guard stationed nearby. However, as much as you wish it, he is not a friend nor your equal. The thought of comforting you, the thought of being so near—it can never be his place.

As if hearing your thoughts, you turn to him with only a sliver of the moon’s light illuminating your features. Even in sorrow, there is a beauty about you that he does not think can ever be captured in phrases.

“I am alright,” you say softly, after a moment of quiet. “I apologize for the false alarm. Please return to your station.”

He watches as you exhale, deep and controlled; watches as you pull yourself together again, mending the seams of your elegant disposition. Even if he dares to offer you comfort, he knows any relief he can provide is only temporary.

So he turns away, releasing his hold on the hilt of his _wakizashi_. He is not here to soothe your hurts, he is merely a protector.

That is what he tells himself as he leaves you behind him, alone in the dark with the residual spirits of your sleep

He rationalizes that it can’t be helped. There is nothing he can do for you.

-

It is said that on the day of your birth, a war was won.

Granted, there were many wars around that time, but this was a decisive one, securing the rise of your own clan’s power in the province.

He was too young to remember this, of course. But the stories and songs persisted into the formative years of his childhood and by the time he was old enough to hold a sword, he could recite the tales of your fortuitous birth by heart and how you had entered the world, swaddled with the blessing of the gods.

He had not been raised to be particularly pious (although most people were to varying degrees). He had never considered the role of divinity in his life; after all, he had no qualms about his destiny, no uncertainties. His clan had pledged fealty to yours decades ago and like his father before him, he would serve your family until death. Oracles and interpretations of the will of the gods could not tell him more than what he already knew of his future.

However, when he sees you for the first time, at the age of eight, he finally understands the tales.

You are lovely; far lovelier than he has seen in the short span of his own life. Your features are soft and round with girlhood, but when you turn to him there is something deeper in your gaze; a sense of acuity that startles him.

You do not raise your nose in learned hauteur as other noble children have. Instead, you keep your eyes on the world around you, ever observant and bright.

All about you, the whispers are only praises, sung so loud they might as well not have been whispers in the first place:

_What a beauty!_

_Her father will have suitors lined up around the walls twice over!_

However, you do not seem to notice the effect of your own presence. Or if you do, you subtly play ignorant. It does not concern him either way; he is simply an onlooker like the rest, observing the budding of your beauty, flush with the promise of spring.

-

The day of your seventeenth birthday comes with much fanfare.

There is a chamber dedicated solely to containing the many gifts you receive from your betrothed. Piles upon piles of items fill every corner, ranging from pieces of pinewood furniture to artisan lacquerware and incense.

He watches as you kneel in front of a carved jewelry box, painted with scenes of the mountains in autumn. Your fingers run over the detailed edge, tracing every careful rise and groove, before placing it back among the other trinkets.

He notices how you smile, indulging your attendants as they fawn over your new luxuries, how you politely examine each item with enough interest to satisfy the onlooking elders.

Ever the picture of grace, you betray no signs of weariness at the extravagant reminder of your future marriage. He knows all your grief is shed in the dark, every tear and sob hidden away in the recesses of the night.

It weighs heavy on his own heart, but he knows he would do the same. Regardless of whether you were a _daimyo_ or a peasant, duty would always come before personal happiness.

When the commotion around the arrival of your presents finally dies, you ask him to accompany you to the library, citing the need to pen letters of gratitude to your groom-to-be. You relieve your maidservants of their duties for the day and the two of you walk in silence, with only the rhythmic fall of footsteps sounding in the corridors.

He notices the slight drop of your shoulders, the way your placid expression slides into one more troubled. He considers offering some meagre words of comfort or perhaps some unrelated anecdote to momentarily ease your burden, but when you reach the library, it is you who speaks first.

“Iwaizumi-san,” his name falls prettily from your lips like a sigh, a soft breeze in the warmth of spring. “Do you wish to hear some of my favourite works?”

He blinks. It is not a command as he is used to, but a question. One that he has never heard before, at that.

“My Lady, I am not sure what—”

“I am afraid I am too tired to write today,” you interject, a wry smile on your lips. A small glimmer of playfulness settles on your elegant features. “I think the afternoon would be better spent reacquainting myself with the old anthologies. It has been a busy few months and I long to read again.”

He is grateful for your secret smile. “Of course, Lady.”

You pull manuscript after manuscript from their shelves, brushing off veils of dust from the covers of some. He stands by the window, but you motion for him to sit, your fingers already flitting through the pages familiar to you.

He listens as you recite piece after piece, your voice brightening as you come across the ones more favoured.

In an afternoon, you take him through the seasons and the storms; through declarations of victory and mourns of loss. When he closes his eyes, he finds the words have a way of settling in the corners of his mind, filling them with images he has only seen in dreams before.

As the sun begins to dip low on the horizon, you turn to him with the same playful grin. You ask him which is his favourite and for the dozenth time that day, you stun him into silence.

“I am not sure, Lady,” he finally manages, as you gaze at him expectantly. “They are all beautiful.”

Thankfully, you are not upset at being given such a simple answer.

You laugh as he pulls you to your feet, “Yes, I suppose they are all beautiful."

But then again, he is certain anything can be, if it arises from your tongue; if it is shaped by your lips.

-

That night, a downpour beats a rapid rhythm on the thatched roof of the castle.

He stands attentive at the entrance to your quarters as he does every other night, listening for any indication of a disturbance.

But there are none. At least not until the rain peters out to a drizzle and the moon reappears behind the receding rainclouds once again.

That is when he hears it; the softest cry beyond the screen separating your presence from his. For the first time in months, his fingers grip the handle of your door, sliding it open with a hesitance he realizes he only feels around you.

“Iwaizumi-san,” you say wearily, but with relief.

“Lady,” he breathes. You look so small and wan like this, shrouded in the long shadows of your dark room. He wishes to see you in sunlight again, to see the glowing mirth return to your complexion.

“Are you alright?”

You sniffle, blinking back the tears unspilt. “I believe— I will be,” you croak softly. “In a moment.”

“Is there anything the Lady requires of me?” he asks; a request disguised as an offer. You look to him, eyes bright. His own hesitance gazes back at him, laced with a deep sadness that is not his own.

There is a moment then—thin and taut, as fragile as spider silk.

“Yes, I—” you swallow, your hands pulling at the sleeves of your sleeping robe. “Please stay with me for a while.”

He nods, lowering himself to take a seat on the floor near your futon. Uncertainty settles at the base of his throat, stifling the words of comfort he knows he should provide.

To his relief, it is you who speaks first. “I am growing weary of this,” you say, a rueful sort of amusement about you. “I feel as if you are the only one who sees me at my weakest. I cannot help but feel slightly pathetic in your presence.”

His eyes flash to yours. “My Lady,” he begins, his tone sharper than he intends. “Forgive me for speaking without leave, but I have _never_ once thought that of you.”

His cheeks flare with heat, unable to fathom how you would even come to that conclusion. You were many things to him—gracious, dutiful, righteous, _beautiful_ —but pathetic could never be one of them.

You only sigh, tucking your knees close to your chest. Your breathing is more even now, relaxed. He is grateful that the grips of your dreams have finally loosened, at least momentarily.

“What do you think being married is like?” you wonder aloud, tilting your head to face him.

“I am not sure,” he replies, honestly. Because how can he know? He is not much older himself and has no foreseeable plans for marriage (despite frequent inquiries made by his mother).

“I have heard that my… _husband—_ ” he watches as your jaw tightens around the word, mirroring the action subconsciously. “—is a kind man. They say he is handsome and skilled in battle. His people love him.”

“Is that so?” he replies, lamely. He has heard much of the same from the kitchen servants—notorious gossips despite being wizened old men—and it brought him only the slightest of comfort.

You nod. “I have also heard,” you continue with a smirk; a flash of white in the dark, “that he visits his concubines often. Every night he is with one. Or two. Maybe more.”

He lets out an amused snort. “He sounds like a rather, _ah_ , _attentive_ lord.”

“Very much so.”

You giggle into the sleeve of your robes before pausing suddenly, a look he’s never seen before crossing your face.

“Have you ever—” you start shyly, turning to eye the chrysanthemums stitched on your _yogi_.

“—been intimate with another person?”

The expression on his face must be sufficiently baffled because you begin to giggle again, stifled peals of laughter as soft as falling snow.

“Lady, I—” he begins, cheeks hot, but you shake your head.

“You do not have to answer if you do not wish to,” you smile, only slightly apologetic. “It was crude of me to ask in the first place. Forgive me.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “it is quite alright.” Something compels him to assure you you have not caused offence. He does not think you could, anyway. Not with him, at least.

“I have— been intimate with another person, Lady.”

Your eyebrows raise in evident surprise. “Oh?”

Heat creeps up his neck as he recalls the event. It had been a year ago with a maidservant from the party of a visiting clan head. She had approached him on a night he was not assigned to your quarters and was quite forward with her intentions.

It was not bad, he explained, slightly abashed. She had left the next morning, leaving a rather auspicious scratch on his shoulder as the only reminder of the event.

You clap your hand over your mouth in pretend shock. “I remember that!” Your laughter grows bold.

“I had inquired about the dressings and you insisted it was a training accident!”

“ _Ah_ ,” as if on instinct, he reaches for the area near the apex of his left shoulder. “I did not think the Lady needed to hear about something so… _inappropriate_.”

You pause, “I did not know my most trusted companion was so well-liked by women.” You shoot him a furtive smile, “perhaps I am drawing the ire of many of your admirers and do not even know it.”

He is shocked for a second. He cannot even imagine someoneholding ill-will towards you for a reason as unlikely as _that_.

You laugh, eyeing the dismayed expression on his face. “I am joking,” you insist, placing a hand on his forearm. The skin under his robes burns with the contact.

You look at him, your eyes meeting his in a hesitant show of informality. He watches as you take him in, gaze running over the planes of his face. There is a line he is toeing dangerously now, by allowing this, by allowing you so near. It is only then that he notices the distance between you.

You are so close. So _so_ close. If he breathes in now, he will only catch the scent of you; sandalwood and ginger lily from incense long burned out. And plum blossoms (always plum blossoms). If he breathes in now, he will be intoxicated forever.

“Iwaizumi-san,” you breathe, setting him ablaze.

“Lady,” you lean forward, hands pressing into the weave of the tatami mat. “I should not. It is not proper for me to—”

“It is not proper for me either,” you whisper, your breath ghosting across his lips.

“We cannot—” he attempts again, weakly, pulse hammering in his ears as you press your forehead to his.

“No,” you agree, quietly. “We cannot.”

And then it happens—the smallest movement and the space between you is no more, replaced with the soft contact of your lips against his.

The action is so gentle, so unsure. For a moment, fear grips him like a vice, cutting off his breath. He finds himself freezing against your touch, heart thrumming so violently he is sure the vibrations will resonate across his breastplate.

And then you part your lips, and oh, _oh_. He begins to unravel, thawed so rapidly by the heat of your mouth against his.

He cups your jaw with his hands and you make a noise of contentment that he can _feel_ against himself—his lips, his tongue. Something inside his chest blooms; unfurling petals, vivid with the colours of spring.

Warmth spreads in the pit of his stomach, flaring suddenly with a desire unfelt before. _More_ , he thinks as your tongue slides against his, _I need more_.

His eyes fly open and he breaks away from you, hands gripping your shoulders to hold you away from him. Disbelief and horror shudders through him, quelling the sudden desperate wanting within him.

“I apologize,” he exclaims hastily, lowering his head to the floor in a bow. “I did not mean— I did not _intend_ —“

There is a silence. The soft patter of rain and his own breath, escaping from him in sharp pants.

“Please,” you whisper and he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Even if you did not intend,” you begin slowly, carefully, “I certainly did.”

He raises his head, unsure if he has heard correctly.

“Lady?”

You clear your throat, your cheeks flushed with colour.

“Iwaizumi-san, I— I wanted that,” you admit earnestly, eyes bright. “I wanted you.”

He does not move.

He cannot move.

No, this must be a dream. One he will wake up from abruptly with the soft rays of early morning warming his face.

But that does not happen. The morning never comes and his throat dries with the realization.

“Lady, I am not worthy,” he croaks, chest heavy with the gravity of the situation.

“Please,” soft fingers rest on the back of his hand. “Please do not say that. I do not regret it,” your thumb brushes over the divots of his knuckles. “I do not regret _this_.”

He swallows, his skin tingling where your hands rest upon his. He does not deserve this, he does not deserve _you_. There are countless reasons why he should leave you now; why he should shake off the weight of your hands and return to his post outside. Pretend this had never happened and continue to stay by your side until the day you are sent away.

There are countless reasons indeed, but he cannot find one compelling enough to pull him away from you.

-

Your days are spent away from him now, but not of your own will.

In the mornings you are swept away by order of your parents to oversee the preparations of your dowry.

You regale him with the details at night, sighing heavily as you recall the vast amount of tableware and furniture your parents insist on being made.

At these times, he cannot help but feel irritated at the mention of your marriage, although he knows he has no right to be. You are not his, you could never be his. No matter how many kisses you share in the dark or how many secrets you whisper under the cover of the stars. You would never be his.

“Are you unwell, Iwaizumi-san?” you ask, the soft flicker of a lantern dancing across your features.

He blinks, realizing his stream of thought has slipped from the present. “I am well, Lady,” he gives you a soft smile and you return it, your hand finding his in the dark. “I think I am simply a bit…distracted.”

“Oh?” you say, turning over his palm. “And what is distracting you, might I ask?”

“You, Lady,” he replies honestly. Thoughtlessly. It amazes him still, how you are so easily able to pluck the thoughts from his mind.

However, if he looks carefully, he can see the flush start to rise in your cheeks.

“How can I be distracting you—” you trace a line over his palm, igniting sparks in the wake of your fingertips. “—if I am with you now?”

He swallows. It is a question even he cannot answer.

“I do not know, Lady,” he confesses.

You peek up at him through your lashes and the effect almost causes him to gape like an idiot.

“But what about me—not the me right now—that has you so distracted, Iwaizumi-san?” you question, your fingers running carefully down the veins of his forearms.

“I— I do not know if it is appropriate for me to say…”

You pause, thumb hovering over his wrist. He wonders if you can feel his quickened pulse, the thrum of the blood pushing against his skin with haste.

“Nothing is forbidden between us,” you assure him in promise.

Nodding, he places his other hand on yours, pressing you close.

“I wonder about—about how you _really_ feel about everything. About the man you are to marry. Your dowry. The future. You tell me so much of the preparations you undergo when I am not with you. It makes me feel upset. It makes me feel so—so _temporary_.”

He feels your touch stiffen against him but when he looks to your eyes, there is no anger. Instead, there is only a deep guilt.

“Forgive me,” you whisper. “I did not mean to make that way. I—”

“I am not angry,” he assuages. He does not know if he could ever be angry with you, he cannot imagine ever looking upon your face and not feeling the bloom of adoration in his chest.

“Yet I must apologize, anyway,” you insist, your eyes wide and earnest. “You are the only one I speak so freely around and I became thoughtless. If I were in your position I think—I think I would feel slighted as well.”

Unease claws at his insides. “That does not change the fact that when the summer comes again, you will be gone.”

Your shoulders fall and you look away. Regret trickles through him, cold like melting snow; he knows it is something neither of you can control.

“Have you been informed of your assignment following my departure?” you ask.

“I have,” he says. “But before that, I have been requested to accompany you on your journey.”

Your eyes flash to his, surprise apparent.

“Your father— believes that you will be more comfortable with this arrangement.”

You nod slowly, “He is not wrong in that.”

In truth, he does not think it will mitigate the ache in his chest; it would simply prolong the time he had with you by a week at most. But then he looks at you—the beginnings of a relieved smile on your sweet features—and his decision is made.

_I will not leave you_ , he thinks later as he watches you drift to sleep, your head cradled carefully in his lap. _I will continue by your side until you go where I cannot follow._

-

“What do you think lies beyond the sea, Lady?” he wonders.

You glance at the endless blue horizon. “They say there are distant lands with people who are— different than us. They do not speak the common tongue and their manner of dress is different as well. They have knowledge of some subjects we do not, but the opposite is true as well.”

He laughs, amused by your sincere response. “The Lady is as astute as ever.”’

You pout, kicking your bare toes into the sand. “Iwaizumi-san is making fun of me,” you declare, turning your nose up.

But he isn’t deterred. “Will you send me away, Lady?” He smirks, “perhaps over the sea? To the distant lands?”

“Perhaps,” you reply cooly, but you are smiling as well.

A warm wind—the first of many in late spring—brushes by, blowing loose strands of your hair over your temple. His hand moves of its own accord, sweeping the lock aside. You startle at the touch but when he moves to pull his hand away, you hold it in place.

He knows you are the only two people on the beach but he feels the white-hot strike of shame at his own carelessness. He feels the fear of being caught, but with the way you are holding onto him, it is clear the feeling is not mutual.

“Lady—”

“Iwaizumi-san,” you bring his hand down to your lips. “Please use my name,” you request, before pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckle of his thumb. A simple action, but it causes a wave of heat to rise up his neck nonetheless.

“I—I think I will go for a swim,” he stammers, the mild temperatures of late spring growing suddenly too warm.

“Hmm?” you let go of him, a knowing smile at your lips. “Alright then,” you produce a manuscript you had snuck out of the library and begin to turn the pages.

He undoes the fastenings of his armour with haste, allowing the pieces to drop onto the sand in an uncoordinated pile. His fingers find the sash of his robe, pulling it loose with one hand, but before he can toss the garment aside he hears a small noise behind him.

You sit there, manuscript held much too close to the front of your face for reading. Despite your efforts, he notices the tips of your ears are slightly red now. Embarrassment floods his chest but so does something else—something small and pleasant like biting into a piece of _ohagi_.

As he places the robe on the ground beside you, he realizes what that feeling is—satisfaction.

Satisfaction at seeing you so flustered because of him. _Just_ because of him. He never wants to see it because of someone else.

“Iwaizumi-san,” you say, words muffled by the book covering your mouth. “Is something the matter?”

Shaking his thoughts, he turns to smirk at you. “I was about to ask you the same question, Lady.”

You clear your throat loudly, a deep red flush creeping over the edge of the book. He turns before you can make a retort, shedding his _hakama_ and jogging to the shore’s edge.

He only turns back once to see if you are watching.

Much to his satisfaction, you are.

-

That night you are restless.

When he enters the room, you are sitting cross-legged on your futon, a lantern drawing long shadows in front of you.

“Are you in need of something, Lady?”

“Yes,” you say, turning to face him. He blanches.

The collar of your _yogi_ —undone—slides down your left arm, revealing the soft curve of your shoulder, illuminated only by the light of the lantern.

Now it is his turn to feel flustered, cheeks reddening at the sight of you in such a state of undress.

“I wanted to ask your opinion on something,” you say, motioning for him to take a seat in front of you.

He swallows, traversing the space between you in a few short steps. Your eyes never leave his as he does.

“What does the Lady wish to speak about?” he breathes, kneeling to face you. He thinks, if he keeps his eyes above your neck, above the soft rise of your bare collarbone, then he will be fine. Or at least, as close to fine as he can be in this situation.

“I have been speaking with my mother and the older handmaidens,” you begin, your hands folded in your lap. “They say—they say the first time a woman is intimate with a man, she bleeds. And that is how they determine if she has never been with another before.”

A long, arduous breath escapes his lungs.

“ _But_ ,” you continue, “there are some women who do not bleed. Although they have never lain with a man before. I have been advised—to cut myself with a nail if I do not—if there is a reason that I will not—“ You are stumbling over your words now, a flush rising from your bare chest.

He is quiet for a moment and you lean forward slightly, the collar of your robe dipping dangerously low in front of him.

“And what do you think of this?” you ask, voice low. It stirs something within him, something more primal than he can afford to give in to.

“What do I think of—Lady, I—If that is something you feel you must do—” his voice grows gruff and he avoids your gaze, digging his fingers into the rough fabric of his robes.

“But it is,” you say softly, the light flickering across your face masking your expression. “It is something I feel as if I must do because—because I do not think I will be able to _bleed_ for my betrothed.”

“And why—” his throat is as dry as a reed. “—why do you think this to be?”

“Iwaizumi-san.” A sigh, the syllables falling together in a single breath.

“I wish,” the robe slips off of your shoulders entirely, “for you to be the one I lay with first. Do you wish this as well?”

He freezes then, almost statuesque. Your gaze is expectant, the sentiment mirrored in the way you bring your hand to rest on his knee.

This is too much now.

“Lady please—” he croaks. “Stop.”

There is a moment of silence, cold and empty, before he gains the courage to look at you again.

Something in your eyes breaks, crumbling like battered rocks against the surf. He almost regrets it.

“You do not want me.” It is not a question, but a statement; defeated and flat.

He shakes his head. “That is not true, Lady. I do.” And he does; the pounding of blood migrating downward as a testament to this.

“Then why—?”

“You do not want this,” he says, tone hushed. He has seen it for himself, seen the way you have looked at him in the dim light of the moment. He knows it is not right. He knows it is not the way he looks at _you_.

“I do not understand,” you shake your head, holding together the front of your robe in a tightened grip. Your face is flushed, embarrassed. “I think— I think I have made it clear now that I _do_ want you. So why— _why_?”

Your eyes are glistening now, rimmed with tears unshed. It causes his heart to pang with such an intensity that he just wants to reach out, to hold you in his arms and stroke your hair until the sadness subsides. But he cannot do that. Not now.

“You do not want this for me,” he says insistently, his hand reaching to touch yours. You withdraw it immediately.

He sighs. “You do not want this for you, either.”

“Do you not think,” your voice wavers, unsteady, “that that is a bit presumptuous of you, Iwaizumi-san?”

Despite the shakiness of your tone, you speak with an air of learned regality. He knows it well; it is the voice you use for displays of your status. However, he has not heard it used _against_ him in years.

“I am afraid not,” he says, gently. “You are not doing this because you wish to be mine, as I am yours.”

“But I _do_ ,” you press, an errant tear sliding down the curve of your cheekbone. Your expression is determined otherwise. “I _do_ wish to be yours. And as you say, you are mine, are you not?”

It is a simple answer.

“I am,” he utters, without thought. “I am yours. My life is yours. My heart is yours. I— There is not a single part of me that is not completely, wholly _yours_.”

“Then why do you refuse?” you lean backwards, away from him. “If—if you are so _truly_ devoted—”

“It is _because_ I am so truly devoted that I must refuse you, Lady.” He grits his teeth, mulling over his next words carefully, “Do you doubt how I feel? Do you doubt that I am speaking the truth?”

You tuck a lock of inky hair behind your ear. “No,” you whisper. “No, I do not believe you would be dishonest,” you swallow. “Not towards me.”

He nods, his fingers itching to find yours. “Please forgive me, I mean no disrespect. I know it is not my place however— however I cannot help but feel as if this is not about me. I understand that this—your betrothal—is not something you have chosen for yourself.”

“But _this_ ,” he presses. “This is not right. I do not think you should lay with me as a means of protest against your marriage.”

“Is that what you think this is?” you say coldly. You look away and the temperature in the room drops.

“I do,” he says, sadly.

You swallow, hands wound in the thick fabric of your robes. There is no appeasing the situation, he knows this. He cannot lay with you in good faith when he knows you do not want him for him. If it were another, he knows it would anger him. He has spent his life a pawn—disposable, more tool than person. He knows much of being used. However, he cannot find it within himself to grow upset with you for it.

He knows the fondness is real; your touches, your smiles, your blush behind a worn manuscript. It was all _real_.

But he knows this is not.

“I think it would be best if I returned to my post, Lady.” He moves to stand, but your eyes remain trained on the wall behind him, your expression impassive.

“I believe so as well,” you say quietly. It is only then that he moves, sliding the door to your room open.

He turns back once with half a mind to offer an apology, but your back is still to him. Shadows flicker around you lazily, casted by the dying light of the lantern. He watches as they dance across your shoulders, no longer bared to him.

He closes the door.

-

You wake up the next morning, dry-throated and puffy-eyed.

_Pathetic_ , you think.

You lie on the futon a while, trying to blink the sleep from your eyes. The events of last night repeat in your head, coloured by the emotions you long to never relive. Humiliation is an unfamiliar hue, but so is rejection and heartbreak. They bloom, droplets of crushed petals, into the canvas of your mind, seeping through the soft fibres.

You cannot blot them out, they will stain forever.

Your attendants arrive shortly after, fussing over your _kimono_ and your hair. You barely wince as they pull it into tight shapes, fastening them with an array of pins that dig into your scalp like the daintiest of nails. It is a routine you know from childhood and the pain is hardly noticeable; in fact it was a welcome distraction from the memories of last night.

If the women around you notice something, they do not say speak on it. Whether it is out of respect or pity, you do not know. You do not care. As long as you are not forced to lie to them.

As you exit your room, you are relieved to find that the guard awaiting you is not Iwaizumi.

“Lady,” The replacement greets you with a stiffness. The word feels odd when your hear it; it is not _his_ Lady. It rings with the same deference and a similar sort of carefulness. However, it lacks something…something _integral_.

“Lady?” another voice says, timidly. It is one of the newer attendants now. You turn to look at her.

She is young, slightly younger than the age you were when you had found out about your betrothal. You give her a smile, a display of rehearsed reassurance and take her hand. She startles but does not pull away.

“I was just thinking about what has been prepared for us this morning,” you say, almost sheepishly as you start down the hallway. “For some reason, I feel exceptionally hungry.”

A shy smile breaks across her features and you feel a small rush of relief. You allow yourself to be pulled along as she recites an itemized list of what the kitchen was producing for the day. The residual dregs of worry dissipate from the attendants around you and for a small moment, even you feel a bit lighter.

-

Unsurprisingly, he finds you first.

You kneel in the corner of the library, your finger resting at the corner of a manuscript page. However, the words in front of you are unreadable, obscured by the persistent welling of tears in your eyes.

“Lady.” A hesitant greeting. You would know that voice anywhere.

Against your expectations, you do not find anger welling in your chest, nor do you feel the scathing burn of humiliation. Instead, there is only relief, cool and pleasant like the lapping of waves against your bare feet.

“Iwaizumi-san,” you reply weakly, with a sniffle.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, concern edging his tone.

You look to him, his broad figure a blur. “Have you heard?” you say, your next words weighing heavily in your throat. “They have moved the date of my wedding up. I am to leave within a fortnight.”

A silence stretches between you.

“Is that so?” his voice is flat now. Indecipherable. You wonder if the distance between the two of you has ever been this vast.

You nod. “It has been said,” you begin, careful to keep your voice even, “that the new date is a lucky one. If the ceremony is held on that day, it will bring about good fortune and prosperity to both clans.”

“Hopefully it will be so.”

The corner of your lips tug down. His reply is measured and calm, carrying no sense of exasperation or anger; it is not what you were expecting. Moreover, it is not what you want to hear.

“Does this please you?” you ask, voice cold and graceless. It is not like you in the least.

“Does it please _you_ , Lady?” he returns, the smallest tinge of irritation lacing his words.

“ _Really_ , Iwaizumi-san,” you begin sharply, “Does it look as if I am pleased? In honesty, I think there is no one but you who _knows_ how—how I feel about this.” Your throat squeezes and you feel the hot rise of tears again, threatening to spill.

He sighs and kneels before you, his armour scraping against the wooden flooring.

“I know,” he says, his voice low. “But there is _nothing_ we can do. This is—this is how it has to be. For the both of us.”

“No,” you reply in a hoarse whisper. “No, we can—we can do _something_. _Anything_.” You ran through the possibilities in your mind; your family would not accept your decision to break off the betrothal—it was much too late for that. And even if they did, you would only be offered up to someone else, eternally a bargaining chip for power, or for peace. You had known this your whole life, but it had only begun to matter _now_.

“Run away with me,” you urge suddenly, reaching out to take his hands in yours. His touch is warm and his skin is rough, hardened by years of weapons handling and labour.

Something shifts in his expression, but it disappears in an instant.

“You do not know what you are saying,” he begins with unease. “This is not something you should consider _—_ ”

“Why?” you press, desperation staining through. “If we are careful, if we are quick…I do not think it would be noticed until morning. We would have a _whole night’s_ head start—”

“Lady,” he interjects frustratedly. “Do not be so _foolish_.”

“ _Foolish_?” you repeat, incredulous. “It is _you_ who expressed your desires against my arrangement. Against discussions of my dowry and my future. And now—now it is as if you do not even _care_. Have you not said that your heart is mine? That your life is mine? Has that changed so suddenly?”

He shakes his head. “No, that has not changed,” he says, his voice strained. “But _this_ ,” he slips his hands out of your grasp, “this cannot happen. Do not ask this of me again.”

“But _why—_?”

At your questioning, his eyes flash to yours. Steady hands grip your shoulders, warming the skin under the light layers of your robe.

“Do you know who you are, Lady?”

You swallow, remaining silent.

“You are the pride and joy of your clan. Blessed by the gods, the greatest beauty of your generation. Unparalleled in grace and kindness. Your future is much more vast than you know. There is so much— _so much_ that you will bring to your family and I cannot stand in the way of this.”

He releases his hold on you and stands up again, his face shadowed.

You bite your lip. “And who…” you glance down at the manuscript on your lap. “Who am I to you?”

There is a small window of silence before he turns, his boots softly scraping the floor.

“I will take my position at the door,” is his only response. “Please let me know if you require assistance with anything, Lady.”

And without another word, he leaves you.

You sit there, staring at the worn pages filled with carefully-inked words. If there are tears yet to be spilled, you do not feel them coming. All that is left is a resounding emptiness; a coldness that beckons forth the beginning of something painful and unfelt before.

There, in the quiet of the sunlit library, you accept what have been fighting for so long. There, you being the gradual process of undoing the bonds you had cultivated in the dark many moons ago.

-

He is not present the next morning when you wake again. Nor the morning after.

In some aspects, it is a relief. Just thinking of him, his sudden coldness, the way he had simply _left_ —you are sure it would be too difficult to have him near. However, with these small scraps of anger, scrounged up by scrutinizing your last interaction, you still cannot bring yourself to not miss his presence.

Longing tugs in your chest and you realize you cannot go on like this. You cannot continue without at least attempting to speak to him again.

So you wait.

Another couple of days pass by in a blink. There is much to do now; preparations are rushed and etiquette lessons are done and re-done until flawless. If there is anything to be grateful for, it is that you have no time to dwell on your feelings in the day. At night, you are too tired to contemplate, often falling asleep immediately. However, the nightmares return with a vengeance and you find yourself scared awake, cold sweat upon your brow and the fading remnants of your dream, slipping through your fingers as you try to recall what it was that had you on the verge of tears.

-

-

-

A full week passes since your last exchange.

Still, he has yet to appear.

In his stead is another guard you have only seen in passing once or twice. If he knows of Iwaizumi’s disappearance, he does not make an attempt to explain it.

Although you want to, you do not ask.

-

-

-

He is gone.

You realize this days ago, but it is only now—the day before you are set to leave forever—that you can accept it fully. It is only now that you can hold the weight of its meaning in your heart; wholly, without denial.

Your sleep that night is peaceful, the first in many months.

For what can you possibly dream of losing that you have not already lost.

-

-

-

The journey to the neighbouring province is shorter than anticipated, requiring only three days on horseback. The only thing slowing the procession is the weight of your dowry and even then, it goes much smoother than you had been warned it might be.

The meals are small and simple but you do not mind. You preoccupy yourself with helping where you are allowed to and double-checking the goods strapped to the carts behind you.

In the end, Iwaizumi was right; you are the pride of your clan and the key to their future. To them, you are not just a bride or their daughter, you are a representative of your family and its values and you could not falter in this responsibility.

You have an undeniable purpose now, something you must fulfill.

So why do you still feel so hollow?

-

The gates creak open and your vanguard moves to enter the grounds. The clopping of hooves on the beaten ground seems to be the only noise as your company proceeds in silence, their path flanked by armoured guards bearing flags with the other clan’s crest.

You glance around you as you near the palace; there are trees lining the exterior of the walls, their trunks thick with age and their foliage casting soft shade over their surroundings. Even once you are past the walls, younger trees and saplings dot the yards, adding a touch of life to the clusters of buildings nearby.

Looking forward, you can see where your procession is to terminate. You feel a fluttering nervousness begin to settle in your stomach. You cannot be rejected outright, you know this. However, you _can_ be disliked and tossed aside without hesitation, leaving you alone with only the company of pitying maidservants to keep you sane for the rest of your days. Your hands tighten around the reigns.

It is not long before you finally see him; a tall figure draped in robes of azure.

He stands alone with no guards at his side. His posture is relaxed and, as you near the end, you see that his expression is also quite placid. He is younger than you had imagined him being and true to the rumours, he is decidedly handsome.

You dismount slowly, careful not to stumble as you feel the ground beneath your feet again. You look up at his direction again but are surprised to find that the distance between you has shortened.

Instead of waiting for you to approach him, he begins to move towards you. The image is incredulous; all around you, your servants begin to bow, lowering themselves in learned deference until you two are the only ones standing.

He stops before you and at this, you bow as well, speaking the lines of introduction and gratitude that you had rehearsed a dozen times over before your arrival.

A second passes and you look up to face him for the first time. Something inside your stomach twists as wide brown eyes meet yours, inquisitive but kind. You tilt your head and for a second, you see something else; an edge of mischievousness disguised as a trick of the light.

“Welcome,” he announces grandly, before leaning forward and lowering his voice, almost conspiratorially, “I believe we have much to discuss.”

There is an amused edge to his voice but you find it impossible to discern why.

He holds out his hand expectantly.

Without thinking and without looking back, you take it.

-

“ _So_ ,” Oikawa leans forward, the motion blowing aside pale curls of steam. “Tell me. Have you ever been in love?”

“Pardon me, my Lord?” your fingers drum over the edge of your own cup of tea. The ceramic is hot to the touch, almost scalding.

“Have you ever,” he repeats, the same easy smile across his features, “been with another person? Grown to love them?”

Every fibre of your being tells you to lie. No good can come from revealing the truth, not in this matter. However, when you look at him, you see something in his gaze; something that strips away every barrier you can muster the strength to put up. Just by this alone, you can tell that no lie will deceive him.

“I do not know,” you answer truthfully. “I thought—I thought perhaps, but I—” you frown, “I am not entirely sure. Perhaps it was something close to that…but not entirely.”

“I see,” he says, enthralled. The room is devoid of people other than the two of you, with any servants or guards far from earshot. “And, how do you feel about them now?”

Your eyes flash to his, alarmed. “Please, my Lord,” you begin, “there is no need to worry, I do not think that—I believe it is irrelevant now,” you press. “I am yours, as promised.”

He raises an eyebrow. “This does not concern our union. That has been decided and agreed upon and I have no intention of going back on that. I simply wish to know you better.”

You wet your lips. “As I said before, it does not matter. He has not—he does not show the same consideration towards me,” you feel your throat tighten as you consider your next words. “He has left me. There is nothing left to be mourned.”

“I am sorry,” he says, his voice low and earnest. In your short time here, this is the closest shade to sincerity he has shown.

“It does not matter now,” you say, assuredly. “Although I am curious,” you start, carefully. “Have you ever been in love, my Lord?”

There is a second when he softens, his expression distant as if recalling a memory. “I believe I have,” is his answer. Something inside you cracks then, the fissures spreading across the already-fragile surface. As much as duty ties the two of you together, you know you can never claim the place in his heart. It had been occupied before you had even come to know him.

“I congratulate you,” you say softly, eyeing the loose leaves at the bottom of your cup. “I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

He observes you for a moment, evidently surprised at your deduction. And then he smiles.

“I wish the same for you,” he says, reaching across the table to lace his fingers with yours. There is something comforting about his touch; a warmth close to the one you would give anything to feel again. Indeed, it is close, but it is not quite the same.

-

You see her at dinner that night, a pretty face made prettier by the carefully applied makeup and the expensive robes draped over her figure. She is brought in as entertainment; introduced as a singer with a unique foreign touch.

You do not understand what this means until the performance begins and you, like every other individual in the room, are pulled into her song. Her technique is near flawless, warped only by a touch of nervousness. But her talent is not what draws your attention, no. Instead it is the way she shapes her words, how she molds the syllables of the lyrics into something so unfamiliar, yet so captivating that you cannot pull your attention away—not even for a second.

You glance at your betrothed as her piece draws to a close, you watch the way he regards her. There is a tenderness there, a sort of deep fondness that you have only seen in the eyes of another before. You know then that you will never be enough—at least not for him.

She bows thrice, once before your company, once before Oikawa, and once before you. You watch as she rises again and you catch a flash of apprehension in her eyes. You can only offer her your kindest smile in return.

“You must be tired,” he leans near you as the people around you fall into carefree conversations, their tongues loosened with liquor. “Perhaps you wish to retire early?”

You glance from the girl to your future husband, something ugly twisting within you. There is happiness all around, but you cannot stand to embrace it. And how could you? None of it would ever be yours.

“I believe that would be wise,” you murmur with a deep sigh. There is nothing left for you to see here.

“I will have someone show you to your quarters,” he says and to your surprise, he motions to the girl from before.

Hesitantly, she approaches, and you send a sharp glance towards Oikawa. Did he expect you to build some sort of camaraderie with this girl? The one he had been rumoured to spend most of his nights with?

“Do not worry,” he smiles, uttering the words under his breath. “I am not so cruel.”

Before you can ask for an elaboration, she kneels, prostrating herself before you in a deep show of deference. It is almost clumsy, but the actions are complete. You frown, unable to discern whether she is doing so mockingly, or with sincerity.

“Lady,” she greets you with reverence. “Allow me to escort you to where you will be staying.”

You look back at Oikawa but his expression is unreadable. You had felt that you could trust him before, but now you are not so sure. Was there a point he was trying to make in this?

You rise and the room acknowledges you immediately with bows and loud greetings of farewell. You return the gesture and follow the girl outside without glancing back.

-

The walk is long and awkward, lit only by the soft glow of the moon as you stride down the silent corridors.

She makes small comments about the decoration and the food, making funny comparisons to the province of her own origin. The jewelry on her wrists and fingers shake as she points out these observations, the precious metals casting light as they reflect the night’s gentle lustre.

She is well loved and it shows. You feel happy for her but only to an extent; after all there is only so much happiness that she can have before it begins to encroach on your own.

“We have arrived,” she says, her accent shining through. “Please let your guard know if everything is to your liking.”

You tilt your head. The hallway around you is empty, save yourself and the foreign concubine.

“Will he be arriving soon?” you question, confused.

She looks at you funnily. “I apologize for the misinformation, Lady. The Lord has requested that he remain within your quarters for assurance of your safety. However, an alternative can be arranged if you are uncomfortable.”

You frown. He cannot possibly imagine that you would be _so_ unwilling to marry him that he had a guard placed within your chambers.

“I believe I will need to do so,” you say, irritatedly. You wonder if you were to be a prisoner until the night of your wedding.

“Of course.” She lowers her head. “Goodnight, my Lady. I wish you a restful sleep.”

You watch as she retreats, disappearing as she turns one of the endless corners of the castle. Exhaling, you steel yourself at the door of your room; if there is anything you cannot bear at the moment, it is the introduction and dealing with someone else from this strange place.

You slide open the door, prepared to reprimand whoever is on the other side. However, your words die on your lips as the broad-shouldered figure turns to face you.

“Lady,” he breathes, eyes wide as he takes you in.

“Iwaizumi-san,” you utter weakly, before falling to your knees, your breath stolen and your vision a blur.

-

-

“—it was then that I asked your father for permission to follow you,” he murmurs and you feel his chest rumble with the words, pressed so close to your own. “I explained that—that I had sworn my life to you. And that I wished to serve you. Until death.”

You look up, detecting the slight flush of his skin in the pale moonlight.

“And he allowed this?” you whisper, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his robes.

He nods. “I do not think—I do not think he wished to pry into my intentions. But he recognized that it would make you happy and so the arrangements were made and I was to leave to secure approval.”

“And what of Oikawa-sama?” you ask, your tone hushed.

He shrugs. “He did not oppose it in the least. However—” he frowns and your chest aches; you do not know how you have missed this sight before it unfolds again, before your own eyes. “He asked if I had known you well. He asked if I would care for you in the case that he could not.”

You cannot help but smile. “He is clever,” you remark, eyeing the soft curve of his collarbone. “But he does not want me.”

“Then he is a fool.”

You laugh then; a burst of mirth that comes forth with such ease that it surprises you.

“That is very brazen of you to say,” you tease, bringing your face to his. “Especially of your new Lord.”

“I mean it,” he utters in earnest. “If he does not see you the way I do, then he is lost.”

You lean forward, feeling the soft feathering of his breath across your skin. “And how do you see me?”

“Perfect,” he breathes. “Radiant.” He brings his lips to press against yours and you close your eyes.

“ _Beautiful_ ,” he sighs against your mouth. Steady hands find the curve of your waist, pulling you close.

“There is no one,” he says, “ _no one._ That even _compares_.”

Your fingers card through his hair as he kisses you once more, languid and warm. There are no more moments to be rushed now, no boundaries to toe. Here, you feel as if you have forever.

“You are the love of my life,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his. As soon as they leave your lips, you realize that the words are thoughtless; the product of a startling realization that you had only just come to terms with. However, instead of overwhelming you, you feel it settling in your bones, filling all the crevices that had been stripped bare before.

You feel him smile into the next kiss, before he pulls away.

“And you,” he says, his eyes shimmering. “You are mine."

**Author's Note:**

> :3


End file.
